


Too Much Paperwork

by that_one_kid



Series: Away to Neverland: De-Aged Fics [3]
Category: Avengers Assemble (Cartoon), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Coulson is dad, Everyone could use a hug, Fury is a drama queen, Gen, Hill is a good bro, Kid Fic, Kid Natasha Romanov, Protective Clint Barton, Protective Natasha Romanov, Teen Clint Barton, Trust Issues, de-aged fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-07 02:25:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18401246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_one_kid/pseuds/that_one_kid
Summary: When the sorcerer-of-the-week casts a spell that turns the Avengers into children and teenagers, no one is really that surprised. The only thing that has Coulson worried is that Agent Barton and Agent Romanov were undercover in a Hydra base - and no one's heard from them since the spell took effect.





	1. Motel 8

**Author's Note:**

> I actually wrote an algorithm that calculates everyone's age! Because I'm a nerd! 
> 
> Also, see end for trigger warnings.

Coulson knocked on the door, valiantly pretending his heart wasn’t in his throat. Strike Team Delta had either survived the slaughter at the warehouse or someone had taken their comms with them to this filthy, out-of-the-way motel. But since sending in a tac team was a spectacularly bad idea if there were de-aged specialists in play, Coulson knocked again. A shadow fell across the light streaming out into the dusk from under the flimsy motel door, but there was no response. He sighed. This was going to go badly.

“Social Services!” he called, trying to keep his tone light. “Can you please let me in? We’ve had some concerned citizens contact us, and I’d rather not involve the police.” At that, there was the faint snick of a lock and then the door opened an inch, chain firmly in place. Clint peered out of the doorway, a careful look of innocence plastered on his face. Coulson watched him calmly.

“Hi,” Clint said after a beat. He was in his early teens, Coulson guessed, likely 13 or 14. He looked mostly uninjured, slouching with a hand stuck in the pocket of a pair of carpenter jeans he certainly hadn’t owned yesterday. There was a purple bandage on his cheek, and his blonde hair was spiky and disorderly like he’d just gotten out of bed. His too-often-broken nose was already crooked, and Coulson carefully kept his rage at the implications of that off his face.

“Hi,” he replied and raised an eyebrow at the door. “Can I come inside?”

“My mom says I’m not supposed to talk to strangers,” Clint said. “And I’m definitely not supposed to let them into the hotel room.” He said it with such conviction that Coulson almost considered the possibility that Natasha hadn’t de-aged and was sitting somewhere out of view, offering advice on strangers to a pint-sized Hawkeye. Of course, she would have answered the door herself.

“Can I talk to your mom?” he asked, and Clint glanced out across the motel parking lot.

“She’s still at the store,” he lied casually, and Coulson bit back his frustration that a child this young was so experienced at fending off law enforcement. “But she said she’d be back in a couple of hours, so if you come back then-” he broke off, glancing uneasily at Coulson who’d managed to get a glimpse at the sweatshirt hung over his right arm. It was stained with blood.

“Are you hurt?” Coulson asked, tone still carefully held neutral.

“I just got a nosebleed,” Clint answered, his own tone still light and unconcerned. And he wasn’t standing like he was hurt, not enough to have lost that much blood. Coulson was suddenly, desperately concerned with where Natasha was. No one, not even her, was exactly sure of how old she’d been when she joined SHIELD, but he suspected she was now somewhere between 6 and 10 years old.

“Where’s your sister?” Coulson asked, and Clint very nearly didn’t stiffen enough for Coulson to notice. He probably would have fooled an actual Child Services worker, but not an agent of SHIELD.

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“The call we got,” he said, carefully leaning forward. It was like walking on eggshells, trying not to scare off the two most flighty children he’d ever tracked down. “They mentioned a little girl, maybe your sister?” Clint yelped and disappeared from the crack of the door like he’d been yanked. Then there was a click, and Coulson suddenly found himself looking down the barrel of a cocked pistol in the hands of a tiny slip of a girl. She was 8, at most.

“Do not move, and do not say anything,” she said. Her Russian accent was thick, but her English was impeccable. “I am going to open the door, and you are going to walk inside like nothing is wrong. If you say a single word, I will shoot you between the eyes.” He didn’t doubt that she meant it. She drew back the chain and slowly opened the door. Coulson stepped inside cautiously, and Clint slammed the door shut behind him and locked it.

“No one saw me come in here,” Natasha said, raising an eyebrow. It was impossibly adorable on her childish features, but Coulson enjoyed life far too much to point that out. She darted forward, and he barely felt her slip the comm unit off of his ear. She dropped it to the ground and crushed it beneath one too-big combat boot.

“And no one here cares enough about anyone to call Social Services over a stray teenage carnie,” Clint chipped in, looking far more visibly suspicious. He didn’t seem to have a gun, but Coulson recognized the distinctive lump of a bow under the rumpled covers of the room’s one bed. He glanced around, quietly taking inventory. There were two bags from a used clothing store in one corner, explaining the relatively well-fitting clothes the two kids were wearing. There was also a backpack clearly filled with guns and ammo. The backpack was splattered with blood. So were the sheets on the bed.

“Enough,” Natasha said, her tone harsh. Coulson looked over at her, carefully scanning her expression. He wasn’t surprised to find he could still read her - after all, he was one of two people in the world she trusted. He winced at the suppressed pain in her stance, in her face. She was the injured one, then. And he’d bet good money that she was also the reason SHIELD was cleaning up over fifty dead Hydra soldiers from the warehouse they’d been stationed in. He’d known Red Room training started early, but that knowledge hadn’t prepared him for this 8-year-old, holding him at gunpoint hours after having been injured in a shoot-out. That she’d won. “I should just shoot him,” Natasha said to Clint in an undertone, her eyes never leaving the strange man in their motel room. “He will be a complication.”

“The gunshot will probably bring the rest of them inside,” Clint pointed out.

“I can handle them,” Natasha said, straightening her shoulders and sticking her chin out. Her perfect control of her emotions was a bit less perfect at this age, then, because that was definitely pride. Clint just glanced significantly at her right leg. Coulson focused in at the glance, but all he could see was the soft grey sweatpants she was wearing. She hadn’t seemed to favor one side or another when he’d entered, and he winced internally at how painful not giving her injury away must have been.

“I’m here to help,” Coulson said, keeping his tone soft and non-threatening. Natasha raised the gun a millimeter, but Clint grabbed for her wrist, tugging her arm back down and shaking his head.  

“What?” she snapped. Clint turned his back to shield his lips from Coulson’s eyes, but he caught the faint edges of the boy’s whisper.

“You know how you said you trusted me? Because I felt familiar?”

“You also seemed very helpless,” Natasha scoffed quietly.

“C’mon, Nat,” Clint whispered, and Coulson could almost hear his eyes rolling. “Like a cover as a helpless little kid would fool you.” She accepted this point with a tiny shrug of one shoulder, being far from a helpless little kid herself.

“I trust him. He feels… familiar. Almost as familiar as you.” Coulson frowned. He’d suspected his two agents had known each other before their respective recruitments but had never found confirmation. Perhaps their iron-clad emotional bond had simply transferred more easily to these bodies.

“I do not trust him,” Natasha said flatly. “And if we let him live, he will tell his people about us.”

“Fine, let him tell them. We’ll disappear. Just - don’t kill him.”

“You are too soft, little bird,” she said quietly. Then she froze. A second later, Coulson heard what she’d heard - footsteps outside, approaching their door. Clint moved quickly, drawing Coulson’s eye as he ran to grab the backpack. Then Coulson felt a smashing blow to the side of his head, and the world went abruptly dark and silent.

~ ~ ~

He woke up twenty minutes later in an empty motel room. The backpack was gone, the sheets had been stripped from the bed, and there was no trace of any former occupants. Coulson himself had a massive headache and a knot on the side of his head. There was a crashing sound and the front door blew inwards, revealing a stream of armored SHIELD agents. Hill stepped through the door just behind the tac team, flicking a glance around the room and then starting toward him.

“What happened, Coulson?” she asked, helping him to his feet.

“They’re hurt, they’re on the run,” he summarized. “Romanov was going to kill me but Barton talked her out of it. They’re…” he trailed off, searching for words. “They’re too good at this, for how old they are right now.” Hill nodded, her face impassive.

“You knew that.”

“Yes, but seeing it?” Coulson huffed out a breath. “I wasn’t ready for it.” A flash of Natasha’s eyes, wary and hiding pain. Clint, lying easily and charismatically to a strange government agent. “We need to find them, and soon.”

~ ~ ~

Barney had taught him how to ride the trains, and now he’d taught her. There was a kind of symmetry to it, Clint supposed. He tucked himself into the corner a little more tightly, sparing a glance for the girl sharing the boxcar with him. She had leaned into a corner herself, not tucking in for warmth like he’d expected. She was too still, too pale. One hand was wrapped around her injured leg.

“You’re gonna be freezing, sitting like that,” he called across to her softly. No one was on this cargo train with them beside the conductor, hundreds of cars up, but no point in taking chances. She just shook her head, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“You won’t be cold?” Clint asked, unfolding a little and sitting forward to look at her. She heard him move and opened her eyes to gaze back at him easily. He broke eye contact first. Something about how she looked at him made him feel weird, like she was reading his mind.

“I am-” she broke off, with a strange little noise. “I _was_ Russian. It is very cold there, so I am used to it.” Clint remembered mornings where he could see his breath in his house when they hadn’t gotten heat, remembered long nights huddled around the fire at the circus, and shuddered.

“I don’t think I’d like to live somewhere colder than it is here,” he told her, and her eyes got a far-away look.

“The snow is very pretty,” she told him when she’d come back from whatever she was remembering. A second later she shivered, despite her earlier assurances, and cast an annoyed glance down at herself. Clint stood slowly, very conscious of her watching him. But she didn’t seem angry, or scared. She was just… watching him. Like she had no idea what he would do next. It was how she had looked at the warehouse, when he’d shot the man sneaking up on her as she tore her way through all the men trying to hurt them. She’d said, later, that it was the bow he used that had surprised her, but Clint had his doubts. He knew something about being surprised to find anyone in your corner.

“You’re cold,” he said, sagely. He was 13, so he was too old to say I-told-you-so’s, but it was true. “And I’m cold. We can fix this if we sit next to each other.” She looked back at him, her face tight and hard to read. “Is that ok?” he asked her, because he was just a little afraid that if he sat next to her without asking she would stab him in the throat. Her expression faded to confusion. “May I sit next to you?” he tried again, drawing on his best company manners, and she hesitated a second longer before nodding.

“You are warm,” she said as he tucked himself into her corner. She was tense beside him for a long moment, but he just hummed a song to himself and watched the trees go past the open door. When he didn’t do anything to her, she relaxed, going almost limp against his side. Clint tried not to stiffen at the touch, or at the sudden chill of her skin. She wasn’t just cold - she was freezing. He shifted so that he could open the side of his jacket, and she burrowed into the warmth, tucking herself into a tiny ball so that she could fit inside his jacket with him, pressed against his ribs. Somehow, this tightened the sense of familiarity he’d been feeling into an almost painful ache in his chest.

“You are Clint Barton,” she said, her accented voice softer than he’d heard it before. Clint would have startled except that it felt right that she knew his real name, knew who he was.

“You’re Natasha Romanoff,” he answered, and she shrugged, the movement telegraphed against his side.

“Close enough,” she said. “We have done this before, have we not?”

“It feels like it. But I don’t remember…” Clint doesn’t remember much, really. Doesn’t remember how he left the circus, doesn’t remember how he ended up in a warehouse outside Chicago. Doesn’t know why he feels this bone-deep trust for this strange, tiny, red-haired girl who he watched kill almost fifty soldiers.

“Sometimes, the handlers, they put things in my head,” Natasha said, her tone pensive. “They feel real too. But… they make sense. They are stories, they fit, they mean something. I do not know what this would mean.” Clint was silent. The pieces of her life he’d caught glimpses of confused and worried him.

“Are your handlers your parents?” he asked, and she turned an amused look up at him and grumbled something that sounds like ‘durak’ but that Clint’s pretty sure was an insult.

“No. My parents died when I was a baby. Then I was taken in by… other people,” Natasha looked around guiltily. “I am not supposed to talk about it.”

“Okay,” Clint said easily. “Let’s talk about where we want to get off. It looks like there is a city coming up.”

“I can get us food,” Natasha offered.

“Good. First, we should find a place to sleep. Somewhere safe.”

“We should take turns sleeping,” Natasha added. “So someone will always be watching.” Clint nodded.

They’re good at this, he thinks. And in a big city, two kids who stay out of the way, who are fast and quiet and good at hiding? He doesn’t think the bad men will find them. So they will eat, and sleep. Then they’ll figure out what to do.


	2. Recovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same trigger warnings as last chapter. See end for details

“They are a 13-year-old and an 8-year-old with a gunshot wound.” Coulson’s voice was low and calm, hitting an octave that junior agents actively fled from. Since the only people in the room with him were Assistant Director Hill and Agent Sitwell, though, the tone was mostly wasted. His grip tightened on the phone. “They only had a twenty minute head start, correct? And how did you lose them?” Coulson paused long enough for the explanation to get frantic before he interrupted again. “Fine. Yes. Call me if you have any updates.” He hung up the phone and let his head fall toward his desk. At the last second, someone slid a thick stack of folders under his face, and his forehead bounced harmlessly off of paper.

“Sounds like the search is going well,” Hill said dryly from just over his shoulder.

“We’re never going to find them,” Coulson groaned. “They’re going to disappear and grow up in the alleys and we’re going to have to recruit them _again_ when they become famous black-market assassins or spies or mercenaries-”

“They could go straight.” Hill interrupted, cutting him off mid-rant “Maybe, in a decade when Thor’s people finally figure out how to break the spell, we’ll have a couple of florists or baristas that wake up one morning with the strangest craving to go buy a recurve bow or strangle a man with their thighs.” Sitwell snorted without turning around.

“You’re hilarious,” Coulson deadpanned, but he lifted his head off of his desk to look at her.

“And you’re panicking,” she chided, and he nodded mutely. “You know, out of everyone, they know how to handle themselves. They’re Hawkeye and the Black Widow.”

“Not yet,” Coulson protested. “They’re a kid barely old enough to call a teenager and an eight-year-old assassin who calls him ‘Little Bird’.” Hill raised an eyebrow.

“Have we considered that Clint should probably be put on the Index for his super-human ability to endear himself to dangerous people?” Sitwell asked, finally looking up from the facial-recognition algorithm he was putting together.

“How are the others?” Coulson asked Hill, ignoring him.

“Steve is… coping. We’ve had psychologists talking to him, working on the time shift and culture shock thing. It was a lot for an eight-year-old to handle,” Hill sounded worried, but Coulson was honestly relieved. One of SHIELD’s biggest mistakes had been not addressing adult-Steve’s buried traumas and culture shock earlier. “Jarvis and Stark’s technicians finally managed to get his armor off, which resulted in a lot of embarrassment for the 15-year-old genius,” Hill continued, and he couldn’t have been imagining the faint hint of a smirk she got as she said that. “Bruce got pissed, terrified a SHIELD team sent to retrieve him from Costco, and hit Agent Chen with a box of Poptarts, but he appears to be unable to unleash the Hulk.” Now she was definitely smirking.

“How’s Chen?” Coulson asked, raising an eyebrow.

“The doctor says the black eye will probably fade in a couple of days.” And now Sitwell was actively giggling under his breath. Good to know that SHIELD agents were taking this seriously.

“And Thor?”

“Still fully grown. Since everyone de-aged by roughly the same amount, ranging from 25-30 years, his theory is that he _was_ affected but since his lifespan is so long…”

“He didn’t really change that much over the last 25 years,” Coulson agreed. Hill shook her head.

“Not physically. But he’s very different in how he interacts with people. Obnoxious, unthinking, arrogant. He starts more fights. Jane’s flying out. She has a theory about why he’s changed so much.”

“Darcy hasn’t tazed him yet?” Coulson asked, and Hill laughed.

“Jane would hear nothing of the sort. Darcy assures me that Maurice is charged and in her back pocket.”

“I’m not even going to question the name,” Coulson said, running a hand over his eyes.

“That’s wise. There’s a story.”

“Of course there is.”

“Facial recognition is running,” Sitwell announced, pushing himself back from the computer. “If they’ve been caught on a camera, we’ll get a ping.”

“This is a top priority for SHIELD right now,” Hill said, meeting Coulson’s eyes. “And Pepper and Thor will let us know if any of the other Avengers get in contact with them,” Her voice went soft. “We’ll find them, Phil,”

“We better. Or someone else will.” Even as he spoke the words, he heard a ping from the computer. There was an impossibly tense moment as Sitwell looked over the result.  
“We got ‘em. Facial recognition in St. Louis picked up a 93% match on Barton. We couldn’t find any photos of Romanov old enough, so we’re going off the assumption the two stayed together, which we-” Sitwell was still talking as Coulson left the room.

“How fast can you get me to St. Louis?” he asked as he strode into a Quinjet he’d ordered to stand ready for that exact purpose.

“Half an hour,” the pilot responded promptly, already rolling out onto the runway.

“Do it,” Coulson said, strapping himself in as they took off. He spent the flight reviewing his notes on what he knew of Clint’s past and coming up with strategies for approaching the two of them. After what seemed like only a few moments, the thud of the wheels hitting the tarmac jolted him out of his thoughts.

“Thanks for the lift,” Coulson said as he stepped off the plane, and he heard the pilot chuckling behind him.

“Anytime, Agent Coulson!” she called after him as she raised the ramp. He walked briskly to Clint’s last known location - a Starbucks, tucked out of the way in a less-than-reputable neighborhood. He started as he glanced through the window - sitting at the bar, staring out at the city and looking battered and exhausted, was Clint Barton. Coulson entered cautiously, ordered a mocha, and slowly walked over to sit next to the teenager. A swelling black eye and split lip marred the cheerful, happy-go-lucky vibe Clint had been projecting in Chicago.

“Hey,” Clint said when Coulson sat down next to him. He didn’t turn his head to look at him, but there were tears in his eyes. “Are you really here to help me?”

“I am,” Coulson said, taking a long sip of his coffee. “If you’d like my help.” Clint stiffened, shooting a wary glance over at Coulson. Coulson just kept his eyes trained forward, looking out the window with apparent curiosity at the bustling city life. After a second, Clint relaxed again.

“I thought this would work,” he confessed, his voice breaking. “I hoped... I don’t know. But there’s no Barney here, and no circus, and no one to protect me,” he frowned. “Not that I need protection.”

“Of course not,” Coulson soothed. “But it’s nice to know someone has your back. What about your friend?” Clint’s face turned stormy.

“We got cornered in a fight. She left me alone.” His words were clipped, terse. Coulson shook his head, letting Clint see his concern.

“She shouldn’t have done that,” he said, and Clint nodded vehemently.

“I thought I could trust her,” he said, and suddenly the tears were threatening to well up in his eyes again. “I thought-” He broke off with a strangled little sound and then began to cry, silently, his eyes huge and gleaming.

“Can I touch your back?” Coulson asked, and at Clint’s silent nod he softly rubbed soothing circles into the teenager’s back as he cried. After a few minutes of furiously swiping at his eyes, Clint straightened up and pushed himself further back from the bar.

“I’m tired, and I’m hungry, and this city is way scarier than anywhere I’ve been. Who are you, and can you help me or not?” he snapped, and Coulson took out his badge.

“I’m Agent Coulson. I work with SHIELD,” he said, letting Clint take his badge with cautious hands. “SHIELD will give you a safe place to stay, and plenty of food and water. We want to keep you safe from the people who were in that warehouse.” Clint looked up, his face pale but resolute.

“Okay. Take me to your leader.” Coulson laughed softly, and Clint offered him a wan smile.

“You’re funny. What’s your name?” Coulson asked, almost holding his breath. Clint just sighed.

“Clint. Clint Barton.”

“All right, Clint. Let’s go to DC.”

~ ~ ~

Agent Coulson was nice enough, Clint supposed. He’d bought Clint a sandwich and a bottle of milk on the walk to his airplane. The pilot, a lady with short hair and a daredevil smile, didn’t seem frightened of him, even though she called him ‘Boss’ and ‘Sir’. But Clint knew, deep in his bones, that the worst kinds of monsters were the ones you didn't see. The ones that looked like heroes and saviors, who showed up when you needed them most. So Clint stayed on his guard, sitting in the corner sniffling and eating his sandwich. Agent Coulson didn’t come over and bother him while he was eating, which was nice. The plane went very fast, and it didn’t take long before they were landing.

“Clint?” Agent Coulson called softly, like he was afraid Clint was asleep. “We’re here.” Clint pulled himself up to his full height and followed him off the plane. “Are you hurt?” Agent Coulson was asking him as they walked up a staircase and into some kind of base. Clint shook his head. “Are you still hungry, or do you want something to drink?” Clint shook his head again. “All right, then I’ll show you to your room,” he offered at last. “It’s got a bathroom and shower, a bed, and even a TV.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “I think it’s nicer than the rooms they give us agents.” Clint laughed a little at that, but only because he was so mock-offended. Then he remembered his mission, the button sewn carefully into the inside of his sweatshirt’s sleeve.

“Don’t I have to talk to someone?” he asked, not entirely faking the reluctance in his tone. “About what happened in the warehouse?”

“We’d appreciate it if you did,” Agent Coulson said, looking a little sad. “But you don’t have to do it right now. If you want to sleep, or-”

“I think I’d rather do it now,” Clint interjected, and then ducked his head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s all right,” Agent Coulson said, smiling down at him. “We can go talk to someone about it right now, if you’d like.” Clint nodded, letting his hands curl up around the cuffs of his sweatshirt, just in case. They walked kind of a long way, although Agent Coulson went slowly and kept an eye on Clint as if he wasn’t going to keep up. Finally, they walked into a long building and into a kind of conference room. It wasn’t exactly the bare room with a one-way mirror Clint had been expecting. For one thing, the walls were colorful and there was a mini-fridge full of food in one corner. A dartboard hung on one wall, and plush office chairs were clustered around a dark wooden table. But he saw the cameras in the corners, and he’d seen the guns on the men they’d walked past. Clint might not have been great at numbers and reading in school, but he was certainly not stupid. This might be a fancy cage, but it was still a cage.

“Sit anywhere you’d like,” Agent Coulson said, taking a seat near the door. “And if you feel like a snack, there’s cookies and milk in the fridge there.” Clint’s stomach grumbled quietly, but he shook his head. The sandwich had been sealed. This food, here, he couldn’t expect to be safe. Agent Coulson gave him another one of those sad looks, and got up to get himself a plate of cookies. When he was halfway through his plate, Clint walked over and got his own.

“We aren’t going to put anything in your food,” Coulson said, when he’d finished his cookies. “I know you don’t have a lot of reason to trust me yet, but I hope you’ll know soon that you don’t have to worry about that.” Clint shot him a look, meant to convey polite confusion, but the man just shook his head with a knowing smile.

“You remind me of a… friend of mine,” he said. “It’s just something he would have worried about.”

“Sounds like your friend is a pretty careful guy,” Clint said, finishing his cookies and dusting the crumbs off the table and onto his paper plate.

“Yeah, he is,” Agent Coulson agreed. “It served him well for a long time, but sometimes it makes things hard for him.”

“Oh yeah?” Clint said, but whatever Coulson had been going to say was interrupted by a large black man with a trenchcoat and an eyepatch sweeping dramatically into the room. This was much more the quality spy content Clint had been expecting.

“Director Fury?” Agent Coulson said, standing up quickly. “I didn’t expect to see you, sir, I thought-”

“This is one of my top priorities, Agent Coulson, as I have informed you.” Clint frowned. Two kids getting caught by a spy organization didn’t exactly seem like it should rank highly in the spy world, but if Natasha really was who she’d claimed… “And so I decided to come to this debriefing myself,” he paused, glowering at Agent Coulson. “Unless you have objections?” Clint expected Agent Coulson to back down, but he just smiled blandly back at the larger man.

“Of course not, Director. Cookie?” Director Fury seemed to not have been expected that, and his bluster abated a little bit as he stared down the plate of cookies Agent Coulson was holding up to him.

“Ms. Wilson’s?” Director Fury asked hopefully, and at Coulson’s nod he picked up an M&M cookie and popped it into his mouth. As he chewed, he meandered over to the chair at the head of the table and sat there, looking importantly at where Clint was perched on a chair next to Agent Coulson.

“All right,” he said at last. “Let’s start at the beginning.” Clint took a deep breath.

“I woke up tied to a chair,” he said, letting his voice waver a little. Agent Coulson leaned forward slightly, looking concerned. Director Fury was a statue. “There were men standing around us.”

“Us?” Director Fury broke in.

“There was another kid there. A red-haired girl. She was tied up too.” Director Fury nodded at him to go on, so he did. “The ropes were real loose. The girl got out right away, and when the men noticed they started yelling and pointing guns at her. Then, she-” Clint swallowed hard, hoping he’d managed to pale. “She started killing them.” Natasha had said that they already knew who and what she was - something she’d picked up along with the SHIELD transmissions in St. Louis. She’d said to blame it all on her.

“She killed all of the men that were trying to hurt us, but one of them got her in the leg.”

“Got her?” Agent Coulson, this time, looking concerned.

“Shot her,” Clint clarified. “She was bleeding really badly, so I grabbed her and we ran to the closest place we could find. I snuck her into the motel and took care of her leg.”

“How did you know how to treat a gunshot wound?” Director Fury asked.

“I used to work in the circus, sir, so I know a bit about taking care of injuries,” Clint demurred. It had taken ten stitches, and they hadn’t had any pain medicines. He bit back the memory of her twitching under his hands and swallowed hard. “Then when Agent Coulson showed up, we got scared that he was one of the bad men from the other place.” He let the tears well up in his eyes again, and saw even Director Fury seemed to believe him on this part. “So we ran away.”

“To St. Louis? What did you do, hitchhike?” Director Fury asked, raising an eyebrow. Clint briefly weighed a few possible lies.

“Yeah. We knew it was dangerous but we thought it would be safer than being caught again.”

“You did a good job of keeping yourself away from everyone,” Agent Coulson said softly. “Then what happened?”

“We were trying to find a place to sleep,” Clint said, letting the first few tears slide down his cheeks. “There were these big men hitting a little boy. I wanted to stop them, but my friend said she’d leave if I tried. She said it was a stupid risk. I thought she was bluffing so I ran in but when I turned around she was,” he took a shuddering breath. “She was _gone!_ ” The rest of the lie falls easily from his lips. “I managed to get away but they hurt me, so I went to go find a safer place. I had a few dollars in my pocket that we’d found in the warehouse, so I got a coffee. I was trying to figure out how to call you guys when Agent Coulson showed up.”

“Why did you want to call us if you thought we were with the bad men from before?” Agent Coulson asked, and Clint ducked his head.

“Not you,” he mumbled, almost too quietly to be heard. “Trusted you.” Agent Coulson looked quietly thrilled.

“All right. Well, thank you for your help, Mr. Barton,” Director Fury said, standing up. “You’re free to take your room here, and all your food and lodging will be paid for.” Time for the final show.

“And if I want to leave?” Clint asked, ducking his head.

“You are free to leave the grounds, of course, but we can’t just release you unless you’re retrieved by your legal guardian or we hand you over to Social Services, since you’re a minor.” Director Fury replied easily.

“But I can go to Social Services?” Clint pressed. He saw Agent Coulson’s face twist into a frown.

“Yes,” Director Fury confirmed. “If that’s what you want. But you’ll be safe here, if you want to stay.”

“I want to go,” Clint insisted, watching the adult’s faces carefully.

“All right,” Agent Coulson said after a beat. “I can make arrangements.”

“And you’re not going to tell me that I should keep all this secret?” Clint asked, reaching for his most innocent look. “Or that I can’t tell anyone about you?”

“Of course not,” Director Fury said, but Agent Coulson suddenly got a calculating look in his eyes. Clint felt a flash of real fear - that was exactly what he’d been warned of. He pressed the button sewn into his sweatshirt hard, felt the little lever compress.

“Wait, sir-” Agent Coulson started, and then the lights went out. A faint red light kept the room lit - some kind of emergency lighting. Agent Coulson was standing, his hand on his gun and his eyes on the door. Clint ducked under the table. The heating grate in the corner that he’d noticed shot open, and a blur of red hair and black-clad limbs knocked Agent Coulson to the ground. Director Fury was on his feet, gun in his hand, but Clint had already been moving, snagging the bow that Natasha had dropped to the ground when she’d broken in. His arrow caught Fury in the right shoulder, and he dropped the gun with a yell and a curse. Natasha was on him in seconds, knocking him to the ground and slamming his head into the wall. He went limp underneath her, and she sprang to her feet, holding out her hand to Clint.

“Time to go, little bird,” she panted, and he nodded in agreement. He lifted her easily back into the vent, and she tugged him up without a noise. “You were right about the vents,” she whispered into his ear as she reached behind him to pull the grate shut.

“They’re the best way to sneak into anywhere,” Clint agreed, with all the seriousness that air vents were due. They crept along, Natasha leading the way by memory. An alarm started sounding after only a few minutes, and lights flickered back on in the rooms they were passing. Finally, they reached a junction where Natasha paused, checked a nearby grate, and then opened. She tried to drop to the ground, but she caught her weight on the wrong leg and collapsed, hands flying to her thigh with a soft sound of pain. Clint, dropping silently behind her, scooped her onto his back without hesitation and ran for the door.

“Key in 159458,” Natasha hissed in his ear, her voice tight with pain. He obliged, and the red light blinked green.

“Hey, stop!” someone was shouting from behind them, but Clint shouldered the door open and sprinted, Natasha bouncing against his back. He didn’t slow down until he was off the base and ten minutes into the surrounding forest. He slowed, checking behind him, and let Natasha down. She stumbled to a tree, leaning hard on a low-hanging branch and cursing softly. She was bleeding, Clint saw, and she’d probably torn her stitches. He shuddered at the idea of putting them back in.

“We have to keep moving,” Natasha said at last, forcing herself upright. Clint looped one of her arms around his shoulder and nodded.

“I got the intel,” he told her as they headed east.

“I heard,” she said, tapping her earpiece. “I am very proud. You did a good job.”

“You were right,” he told her as she stumbled beside him. “They’re not afraid of any kid who’s crying.”

“Even when they should be,” she recited, and he shot a feral grin back at her.

“Even when they should be.”

~ ~ ~

“And if I want to leave?” Clint asked, and Coulson had to fight to keep the surprise off his face. He knew that Clint didn’t feel safe, there but why would he turn himself in just to leave again?

“You are free to leave the grounds, of course, but we can’t just release you unless you’re retrieved by your legal guardian or we hand you over to Social Services, since you’re a minor.” Fury was saying.

“But I can go to Social Services?” Clint asked, and Coulson knew he hadn’t managed to hide his suspicion. Clint, of all people, was asking to be sent to Social Services?

“Yes,” Director Fury was saying. “If that’s what you want. But you’ll be safe here, if you want to stay.”

“I want to go,” Clint insisted, his eyes sharp. Coulson saw a lot of Hawkeye in that look.

“All right,” he said, still suspicious. “I can make arrangements.”

“And you’re not going to tell me that I should keep all this secret?” Clint asked, his eyes widening in apparent confusion. “Or that I can’t tell anyone about you?”

“Of course not,” Director Fury said, and Coulson’s mental alarm spiked. He reached for the trigger and found an old memory of Natasha, just weeks after SHIELD had first put her in the field.

“Get ready for a fight, Clint,” she’d said softly.

“Why?” Clint had asked, although he’d already been moving into position.

“No one invites you into their secret base and then doesn’t threaten you if they intend to let you leave alive,” she’d said. Snapping back to the present, Coulson saw Clint’s hand clench suddenly around an outline in the sleeve of his sweatshirt. Natasha had given him a damn panic button.

“Wait, sir-” Coulson started, and then the lights went out. He let his hand go to his gun, watched Clint dart under the table out of the corner of his eye as he turned to watch the door. Too late, he realized that the kids’ shared advice had gone both ways. Natasha flew out of the vent and slammed him to the floor. His gun slid off across the floor and he reached for her shoulders, but she twisted out of his grip and kicked him in the head.

The world went grey and blurry for a moment, and then he caught a glimpse of Clint lifting Natasha to the vent, her pulling him up after her, and they were gone. Fury lay still on the other side of the room, and Coulson struggled to his feet, stumbling over to take his pulse. He was alive, just unconscious. Coulson sank to a seated position next to him and shook the blurriness from his vision. This was not good. He glanced at the vent cover, pulled back into place. SHIELD seriously needed to upgrade their security.

“Coulson?” Fury groaned, sitting up and rubbing his head. “Tell me an eight-year-old did not just break into a SHIELD facility.”

“An eight-year-old did not just break into a SHIELD facility,” Coulson replied, deadpan.

“Right. Now tell me the truth.”

“An eight-year-old broke into our facility. She took the teenager we were holding with her when she left.”

“Fuck.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for: Children in dangerous situations, children with abusive pasts, children who don't trust adults, runaways, violence done by and to children


	3. Take Me Home Again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end for trigger warnings

**24 Hours Later**

“I think that went well,” Clint said, and Natasha scoffed from her perch on Clint’s back. He tipped his head back to look up at her expression. The light from the massive fire danced in her red hair.

“There is too much fire for well,” she chided, and he lifted his hands in a rough imitation of a shrug. Actually shrugging while Natasha was perched on his back had proven to be a bad idea.

“Well, to be fair, the Hydra agents aren’t chasing us anymore,” he pointed out.

“Yes. Because they are on fire.”

“I didn’t know that any of the arrows in this quiver did _that,_ ” Clint defended. “I don’t even know when an oil arrow would be useful.”

“Maybe if you wanted to burn down the building you were standing in,” Natasha said, raising one eyebrow. Clint lowered her back to the ground and she promptly sat cross-legged, glancing only briefly at the inferno blazing a few miles away.

“How’s the leg?” he asked as she checked through their backpack.

“It is fine,” she said, like she’d said every time before. “I can walk from here.”

“Still not what I’m asking, Nat,” Clint objected quietly.

“It feels a little better,” she said reluctantly. “The antibiotics are helping, and the stitches are still fine.” Clint breathed a not-so-subtle sigh of relief.

“I’m glad. How we looking?” Natasha laid out their new prizes on the broken concrete slab she was sitting on, easily stripping and cleaning the three pistols.

“Three handguns," She gestured vaguely. “Bullets for all of them. Two knives, a roll of bandages, my pills, some…” she trailed off, holding the object in question up.

“Antibiotic cream,” Clint told her. “It’s like the pills you’re taking, but less strong. You put it right on the cut.”

“I know what it is,” she said sourly. “Just not how to say it.”

“They took the pain meds, though?” Clint asked. Natasha just nodded, tugging the last of the contents of the bag out.

“Two cans of soup, a loaf of bread, and a box of food bars.”

“Not too bad, considering,” Clint mused. Considering they’d been grabbed by Hydra, again. Considering that he’d seen Natasha go down from a taser to the back, that he’d woken up handcuffed to a railing, that the trick arrow he’d accidentally shot had gone through a torch and nearly burned the whole damn place down.

“Why did they have torches, anyway?” he asked, watching Natasha neatly repack their meager belongings.

“Some kind of…” Natasha broke off, frustrated. Her English was really good, but he’d noticed lately that she had a few gaps in her vocabulary that she seemed to find immensely irritating. It mostly came up while they were taking inventory. “Religion. Thing.”

“Cult?” Clint guessed. “Yeah, that would make sense.”

“None of this makes sense,” Natasha said bitterly, struggling to her feet and swinging the pack on. Clint had objected the first time she took her turn carrying her pack. He had since learned that he should not try to coddle her when she was injured. His bruises still hadn’t healed. “The year is wrong.”

“Yeah,” Clint agreed, tugging the sleeves of his sweatshirt down over his hands and trudging after her. “That is weird.” Everywhere they went, it was the same. Every newspaper, tabloid, billboard, and calendar gave the year as 2019, when he thought it was 1985 and Natasha thought it was 1993.

“If we went forward in time,” Natasha wondered. “Why?”

“Did anything weird happen before you remember waking up in the warehouse?” Clint asked. He checked the position of the sun, shaking his head. They only had a few hours of daylight left to walk in. Natasha shook her head. “Yeah, not for me either. It was a normal day at the circus. I had my act in just a few hours, and then…” he mimed an explosion with one hand. “I woke up there.”

“I was hunting,” Natasha said. “I was aiming when I woke up.” Clint carefully does not ask _what_ she was hunting.

“Well, we’re going to need somewhere to go if they keep coming after us like this,” Clint decided. Natasha shook her head, pausing to pull a branch out of their way.

“If they have not sent someone for me yet, they will not,” she told him, looking serious. “No help will come from the Red Room.”

“What about my past? The circus isn’t perfect, but they keep on the move. And they’re used to dealing with disreputable kinds of people.”

“Where?” Natasha asked.

“Iowa, maybe. I can look it up if we can get internet access.” Clint had recently discovered the internet and thought it was the coolest thing ever. Natasha was deeply wary of it, though, and wouldn’t let him carry anything connected to it.

“There should be a small town over this ridge,” Natasha mused, and then drew in a sharp breath as a rock turned under her foot. After a second, she continued. “I saw it when they were bringing us here. Not ideal for blending in, but we can use the library and then disappear,” Clint nodded.

“Which cover?” he mused. “Road trip?”

“Won’t work in a town this small,” Natasha pointed out. “Camping trip?”

“That should work,” Clint agreed. “We drove mom to distraction and she sent us to the library to amuse ourselves for a few hours.”

“Agreed,” Natasha said, and as they crested the ridge she switched into her Natalie persona. Clint had seen her do it a few times, but it still seemed weird and wrong. Her weight shifted back down onto her injured leg, her sharp gaze faded into a wide-eyed stare, and her careless grace shifted into a childish clumsiness. “Hey, Jack, can we go to the library?” she asked loudly, latching onto his hand. He took her weight as best he could, helping her avoid further injury in her leg while trying to look like a bored older brother. It made him miss Barney a little.

“Sure, fine,” he mumbled distractedly, helping her down the hill. They crossed the small street, drawing a few curious glances. Nat had not been exaggerating about the size of the town, and any strangers were likely to be a curiosity even if they weren’t unaccompanied minors. The library was small but clearly signed, and they headed in that direction. Once they arrived, Nat paged slowly through children’s books while Clint Googled random things. He took care to mix in his search for traveling circuses with searches about why frogs are slimy (a coating of mucus to help them breathe) and what lions eat (antelope, buffalo, zebras). When he’d found the current location of the Carson Carnival of Travelling Wonders and found a good route there, he cleared the history and powered down the computer. He collected Nat and headed out, only to freeze at the door.

“Nat,” he hissed, and jerked his chin at the police officer leaning on a tree on the library lawn.

“We expected this,” she reminded him, but she’d gone a little pale as well. They were in no condition to fight or outrun anyone today. Clint took a steadying breath and then headed out the door, tugging a little on Nat’s hand. They made it halfway down the sidewalk when the policeman ambled over. Nat smiled and waved excitedly at him, and Clint made a point of rolling his eyes at her.

“Hi,” the officer said, in some kind of accent Clint didn’t recognize. “Mind telling me what the two of you are doing out here alone?”

“Mom says we were being annoying!” Natalie chirped, and Clint shook his head, tugging on her hand.

“Our family is camping just over that way,” Clint said, pointing vaguely at the forest. “Our mom sent us to get some books from the library.” He had a fleeting moment of panic that they didn’t have any books, but Natasha shrugged off her backpack and pulled out a handful of picture books, waving them excitedly at the man.

“See! We got lots!” The officer smiled at her and she shoved them back in, never letting the backpack tilt enough that he would be able to see inside.

“I see,” he said, and though he looked relaxed and calm Clint thought he was more suspicious than he was letting on. “Nice weather for camping. You kids want a ride back to your campsite?” Clint pretended to consider for a moment.

“No, I think it’ll be faster if we just walk,” he said, and the man nodded seriously.

“You two take care then,” he said, and Nat bounced off, dragging Clint behind her until they hit the tree line a few minutes later. Almost as soon as they were out of his sight, Nat staggered behind a tree and threw up. Clint followed and found her curled up on the ground, hands white-knuckled around her leg.

“You’re pushing it too hard,” he told her, kneeling beside her and rolling up her pants leg to check her thigh. It was red and swollen, and blood was leaking into the bandage again. She was quiet for a moment, long enough that Clint started to get really worried.

“That police officer suspects us,” she told him finally, sitting up and swiping the back of her hand across her mouth. “He thinks we are living out here.”

“We are,” Clint pointed out.

“We have to go. Did you find the way?” she continued, ignoring him entirely.

“Yes, but there is no way I’m letting you walk on that,” Clint said, and she mumbled something in the other language that she sometimes spoke in. “There’s no call for that,” he said, making an educated guess at her comment. She looked embarrassed, so he thought he’d probably guessed right.

“I can-”

“I know,” Clint interrupted before he thought better of it, and then realized that he was probably very lucky that Natasha liked him. “You can kill ten men in a fair fight and act like an innocent kid five seconds later, but even you can’t walk for miles on an infected bullet wound.” She was making Clint look like a model of self-care, which concerned him. There was a long pause, during which time Clint thought Natasha might have been sizing him up to guess her chances of hiding his body. Then she sighed and deflated, tipping backward until she was laying across his lap.

“Okay,” she said.

“Okay,” Clint echoed, carefully brushing her hair back from her face. She was breathing hard but she wasn’t shaking or sweating, so he figured she’d be okay traveling for a while. “I’ll carry you again, and then we can stop and camp once we’re far enough away that that officer won’t find us tonight.”

“Macbeth,” she said, somewhat ominously, before she continued. “Officer Macbeth. His name was on his jacket.”

“Somewhere Macbeth won’t find us,” he agreed. “Wow, now it sounds like we’re running from English class.”

“What?” Natasha asked as Clint lifted her easily to his back. He was tired, true, but she was light and the weather wasn’t too bad today.

“Macbeth. We read it in 6th grade when I was with a foster family. It’s a story.”

“What’s it about?” Natasha asked drowsily, her head resting on his shoulder. Clint took a deep, dramatic breath and she huffed out a laugh. The rest of their evening hike was filled with him regaling her with a half-remembered and likely incorrectly quoted version of Macbeth, which Clint was pretty sure picked up at least some of the plot of Hamlet when he was partway through. She stayed awake until they made camp and then was asleep in minutes, tucked against Clint’s side. He put his arm around her and stared up at the stars, flickering through the campfire smoke. The circus had to work out. It had to, because they couldn’t keep this up for much longer.

 

~ ~ ~

 

“I think I have some news,” Hill said, striding into Coulson’s office and sliding a folder across to him. He flipped through three pages of photos before looking up, poker face well and truly in place.

“What is this?” he asked, flipping one of the photos of a smoldering warehouse around to face her.

“Well it _was_ a Hydra base in Minnesota,” Hill said, raising one eyebrow. “A Hydra base that reported over a channel we were monitoring that they had apprehended the Black Widow and Hawkeye. The same base that reported that their prisoners had escaped and were, and I quote-” she flipped to a different page, skimming a transcript. “In the walls, oh my god, and they’ve got a fucking bow and arrow.”

“That does sound like them,” Coulson agreed. “Then what?”

“Unclear. Transmission stopped, and by the time our agents got there the whole place was burned to the ground. There were child-sized footprints in some of the ashes, but we lost the trail in the woods.”

“Damn,” Coulson said. Then, “Minnesota? They were in D.C. yesterday.”

“We think Hydra grabbed them and transported them.” Coulson frowned. Both of his agents knew not to go to a second location with an attacker, had known for far too long. They would have been unconscious or badly hurt when they were transported.

“Coulson.” Hill was saying, and he focused back in on her. “Any idea where they’ll go next?” Coulson was already grabbing his jacket and picking up his holster.

“How quickly can you get me to Iowa?” he asked.


	4. Epilogue - Family is Forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end for trigger warnings

The circus was different. No one was there that Clint remembered. Not Barney, not the Swordsman, not even Ms.Williams the Bearded Lady or Fortuna the Fortune Teller. He wandered through the circus grounds, Natasha on his back, and stared at everything with what Natasha said was an alarmingly betrayed expression.

“Fix your face,” she hissed, smacking the back of his head. “Or people are going to start noticing us.”

“Everything’s different,” Clint said, trying valiantly to twist his face into a normal expression.

“It is because we are in the future,” she reminded him. “Perhaps they will take us anyway.”

“Perhaps they will,” a familiar voice said behind them, and Natasha stiffened against Clint’s spine. He heard a faint click and assumed she’d drawn another gun on Agent Coulson.

“This way,” he hissed, twisting to grab the man’s arm and lead him, unresisting, into a nearby empty tent. He let Natasha down from his back and she stood carefully, keeping her weight off her bad leg and her gun level on the man’s head.

“You are persistent,” Natasha said, with grudging respect in her voice. “But I will not leave you unconscious for a third time.”

“You didn’t kill me the first two times,” Agent Coulson reminded her. “I don’t think you’ll kill me now.”

“I was humoring my friend,” Natasha said, her tone sharp. “I have no such weaknesses.” Her words stung a little, but Clint kept his face calm.

“Caring about other people isn’t a weakness,” Agent Coulson said softly. “And it’s obvious that you care a great deal for your friend here.” Natasha’s face darkened, but Clint saw a flash of real fear in her eyes.

“If you hurt him, you won’t make it very far,” she warned, steel in her voice. Clint felt a warmth in his stomach. Natasha really did care about him.

“I don’t want to hurt him, as he can attest,” Coulson said. “We offered him a safe place to stay, food and water.”

“You weren’t going to just let me leave, were you?” Clint countered, his hackles rising.

“We were. SHIELD isn’t exactly popular knowledge, but it’s a public organization. Nothing you know is something you couldn’t tell someone.” Clint glanced at Natasha, who looked a little more thoughtful and a little less murdery.

“You’re in the wrong time,” Coulson said, his tone calm and level like he was discussing the weather. “But in this time, when you’re grown ups, you work with us. We just want to keep you safe until we can reverse whatever was done to you.” Natasha shifted her grip on her gun and glanced for a second back at Clint, her expression unreadable.

“Prove it,” Clint said.

“Your full name is Clinton Francis Barton,” Agent Coulson said. Natasha stilled. “Your parents were killed in a car crash, and a few years later you joined a traveling circus.”

“You could have looked all of that up,” Clint objected.

“Your favorite color is purple. If you get a dog, you’re going to name him Lucky. You can make any shot with any arrow, but you’ve always wanted a boomerang arrow. You drink coffee straight from the pot.” Agent Coulson stopped. “Well, you probably don’t do that yet.”

“That’s what you think,” Natasha said in an undertone, and Clint scowled at her affectionately.

“You choose to call yourself Natasha Romanov,” Agent Coulson said, turning to her. “You escape the Red Room and make yourself a family. You’re a private person, but you trust a few people with your whole self. You love dancing. You want a cat, but you’re worried about who would feed it while you’re on missions. Every year for your birthday, you tie a black ribbon to a fence but won’t tell anyone why.” Natasha was silent, staring back at Agent Coulson like he’d sprouted wings.

“Even if this is true, how do we know you’re not an enemy?” Clint interjected when Natasha didn’t say anything. “You could have been stalking us or recording us or something.”

“You love Natasha with your whole being,” Agent Coulson’s voice is softer now. “In our year, she calls you something that means little brother in Russian.”

“Младший брат,” Natasha murmured. She had called him that once, when he staggered while carrying her but refused to put her down.

“You watch her back, and she watches yours. The two of you are closer than anyone I know. We think it’s why you trusted each other, even like this.”

“All right. Say we trust you. What then?” Clint asked.

 

**Seven weeks later...**

 

After two of the most stressful months of his life, Coulson was sitting on the couch in Avengers Tower feeling his stress levels ebb slowly away. Animaniacs was playing on the common room television. Clint was sprawled across the rest of the couch, his head in Coulson’s lap, sound asleep. Natasha was tucked in between his legs and the arm of the couch. She had one hand resting on Clint’s calf, although her calm and steady gaze was more on the room than the television. Tony was to their left, putting the finishing touches on an impressive blanket fort. Inside, Steve was curled up with a stuffed bear the size of his torso that Tony had decided to order for him off Amazon. Thor was listening intently to Bruce explaining in painstaking detail the rules of creating a bard character in Dungeons and Dragons. Pepper ambled in from the kitchen and dropped into an armchair with a long sigh of relief.

“We did it,” she told Coulson, and he smiled. “They’re all safe.”

“Yes, they are,” he agreed, fondly ruffling Clint’s hair. He didn’t stir, but Natasha looked at him with something like poorly-hidden longing. “We did good.”

“Would you like a braid?” Pepper asked Natasha, following her gaze. Natasha hesitated, hand tightening on Clint’s leg.

“I am-” she started, and glanced at Coulson. “I have to-” she broke off again.

“She’s keeping watch,” Coulson explained to Pepper.

“Okay,” Pepper said easily. “What about when he wakes up? Then you can get your hair braided and he can be on watch for you.” Natasha hesitated a moment longer, but then nodded. “It’s a plan, then.”

“Speaking of plans, what’s the plan for tonight?” Coulson asked.

“We have planned a great battle for the evening!” Thor boomed, and Clint startled awake. Looking sheepish, Thor lowered his voice. “Bruce has shown me how to create my character as well, so we can play with the dragons in the dungeons.”

“Yes,” Pepper agreed, and Clint settled back down. Natasha tugged him toward her and whispered something in his ear, and he sat up suddenly, looking threateningly around the room as Natasha padded towards Pepper. It was both painful and adorable, an emotional combination Coulson was becoming much too accustomed to. Pepper patted her lap and talked over Natasha’s head as she clambered up and got settled. “Bruce helped everyone make a character today, so they’ll play that tonight. Tomorrow Thor’s friend the Enchantress will take a look at the spell.”

“Friend is perhaps an overstatement,” Thor grumbled as Pepper began to carefully run a small brush through Natasha’s hair. Coulson distractedly wondered if she’d grabbed it from her purse or simply willed it into existence.

“I understand that D&D is a bit complex. Will everyone be able to play?” he asked, this time looking at Bruce.

“I’ll be fine,” Tony piped up, soldering something on the ground. Coulson would have sworn blanket forts involved no electrical components, but what did he know. “And I can help Steve.”

“Thanks, Tony!” Steve’s muffled voice emerged from the fort.

“I think I can pick it up,” Clint said easily. “Plus I’m playing an archer anyway. And Natasha is good at figuring out rules.” Coulson suspected the two of them would rapidly start finding loopholes, and vowed silently to provide enough Pop-Tarts to keep Bruce quiet and calm.

“I may require some assistance,” Thor admitted, although his eyes were twinkling. “Perhaps Lord Stark may assist me as well?” Thor’s good humor and agreeability had returned after a long discussion with Jane and Darcy, which Hill swore involved minimal tasering. Apparently, humility was key.

“So Dungeons and Dragons, and then pizza, and then bed. And tomorrow we’ll get everything figured out,” Pepper concluded, and patted Natasha softly on her shoulders. “All done.” Natasha hopped down, running a careful hand over the French braid cascading down her shoulders.

“Sounds like a good plan,” Coulson said, smiling around at his family. “I can’t wait.”

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for: Children in dangerous situations, children with abusive pasts, runaways, violence done to and by children
> 
> Дурак - “Durak” - Idiot  
> Младший брат - "Mladshi Brat" - Little Brother


End file.
